***

Philosophical Rant.

Don’t say I didn’t give ample warning!

***
I am dying.

The whole night I walked around town, craving for Italian gelato and trying to figure out the origin of promiscuity. Not just anyone’s of course, but mine. They question simply kept on playing in my head. From where was the source of my sexual irreverence?

There was no answer, obviously. How the hell are you supposed to pin point something as elusive as a collective of subtle decisions throughout an entire life-time? Was it when I first discovered self-gratification? Or the time I read that trashy novel I’d picked up from the street, or the decision I made when I hit adolescence, that I could not be bothered with keeping my virginity?

I went down to the Mitre to knock down a couple of gins with the Girlfriend. It was someone’s graduation party, and the gathering was what I suppose were the regulars at the bar. The MTV girl I met the last time was there anyway, and we had a great conversation about how to live life. I supposed talking to her assuaged some of my uncertainties about the way I was living.

Life is in the now, just live it, for the love of god.

But then I asked her if she was happy (because that’s what she told me was eventually her ultimate purpose in life –isn’t it all of ours? Mine was satisfaction. Which isn’t that far off from happy as an emotion really.) And she said she didn’t particularly know. But it wasn’t just the way she said it, it was the expression that registered on her face and in her eyes. An emotion that spoke of confusion and pain and a number of other things I really shouldn’t be assuming since I might be grossly wrong.

But that’s not the point, and it does not matter particularly, anyway. At the end of the night,what struck me most was the confirmation that I’m not the only fucked up person out there. It was not so much a situation of, oh if I’m going to hell at least I’m not going alone, but rather a circumstance inclined to the understanding that, as people, this was just the way it went for us.

Chasers of a happiness we can never attain, and whores for a satisfaction to which we successively marginalize ourselves, our conscience, and just about everything we believe in for the hope of its realization.

All that is only pertinent to me, of course. I do not claim to know how goes your beliefs.

Whatever I’m doing right now is getting me no where. It satisfies temporarily, but eventually, I’m forced to seek out more, do more, as clichéd as that is. (But clichés are clichés precisely because they are truths.)

And you know what the scary thing is?

It’s all good and well to say that I’m living a fucked up life, and that I should change, but whose to confirm that anything else I do is going to get me somewhere and give me the satisfaction I chase after?

I have this idealistic belief that at the end of a life, everyone will have had her fair share of happiness and satisfaction. Like, hell has a level of torment and heaven her own standard for bliss; so then it must follow that this world must have a nice in-between figure for both that everyone will be entitled to.

So why bother. Why bother chasing unless it’s for the pleasure of chasing, why restrain, unless it’s for the satisfaction you acquire from that pretentious sense of discipline.

***
The boy sent me a book recommendation today: 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed.

I just read the review of this book, it is a real blockbuster in Italy right now. I think there are some parallels between the both of you....

I told the girlfriend that it really hurts me when he says he knows I have a sex-life outside him and he simply cannot want to know about it.

I should be so revolted at my own behaviour of late.

I really should be.

Xoxox